
Dipped From 
Stream 



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DEC 21 1914 



DIPPED FROM 
THE STREAM 



DIPPED FROM THE 



A COMPOSITE OF VERSES 

DIPPED FROM THE STREAM 

OF 

SYMPATHY, SENTIMENT AND TRUTH 



£l^ 



COMPILED BY 

GEORGE D. LANE 

M 
KANSAS CITY, MO. 



U:^' 



Copyright 1914 

BT 
GEORGE D. LANE 



©CI.A394228 
■JtC 21 1914 



HAMMOND PRESS 

V/. B. CONKEY COMPANY 

CHICAGO 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

After All 7 

The House by the Sh)e of the Road 8 

The Same Old Town 9 

Abe You Getting Anywhere ? 10 

Do It Now 11 

The Land of Beginning Again 12 

A Toast to the Man That Takes My Place 13 

The Bitter Wit 14 

The Common Lie 15 

The Beckoning Road 15 

The Reform Movement in Jimtown 16 

"The Level and the Square" 18 

Where the West Begins 19 

The Pity of It 19 

An Unmarketable Stock 20 

Tell 'Em You're Feelin' Fine 20 

My Dog 21 

Did You? 2] 

A Dying Hobo 22 

Only a Horse 23 

A Clear Question 23 

The Lower Higher 24 

Journey Through Life 24 

5 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Sheaes and Sawbuck 25 

The Farmhouse Piano 27 

How THE SUCKEE FELT 28 

Conscience 28 

A Senseless Affair 29 

Home 30 

The Things That Count 31 

"Don't Talk Blue" Story 31 

The Commercial Traveler 32 

Parted 33 

The Grove of Memory 34 

Pretty Good World 35 

Crossing the Bar 36 

In the Land of Never Hurry 36 

Passers 37 

Don't Be a Quitter 38 

When Someone Cares 39 

Joys 40 

A Bachelor's Christmas Gifts 41 

The Eeal Truth .41 

Things You Leave Undone 42 

The River of Life 43 

The End of the Romance 43 

Where Do You Go From Here ? 44 



AFTER ALL 

THEY may sa}^ when my labors are ended 

That I lacked all the gifts of the great; 
They may find in my work nothing splendid. 

And may call it hut third or fourth rate; 
They may pity me even for trying 

To climb to a place on the height; 
They may scorn all my efforts, denying 

That my pinions Were fashioned for flight. 

They may turn from me when they have weighed me 

And say I was wanting, and then 
Permit me to rest where they've laid me. 

Ignored and forgotten by men; 
But, even so, shall my endeavor 

Be deemed unavailing or small? 
Better that than he one whom they'll never 

Consider worth weighing at all. 




THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE 
OF THE ROAD 

Let me live in my house by the side of the road. 

Where the race of men go by — 
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, 

Wise, foolish, so am I. 
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat. 

Or hurl the cynic's ban? 
Let me live in my house by the side of the road. 

And be a friend of man. 



Trom "Dreams in Homespnn." 
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard, Boston 
Copyright rigidly protected 



s 



THE SAME OLD TOWN 

Like a lonesome stork I have come of late 

To the same old town in the same old state. 
Where I used to walk when the day was bright. 

Where I used to stroll in the pale star-light. 
I say, I'ye come to the same old town 

With its way-up folk and its folk way-down, 
And stand once more in the same old street. 

And walk again on the same old beat 
That leads away to a quiet dell 

And a grassy bank I once knew well. 

'Tis the same old town, but older grown, 

And sights and sounds at first unknown 
Return again to their wonted track 

And all seem glad that I've come back.. 
The same old trees fling out their shade; 

The same old man and the same old maid. 
The first too blind and the last too shy 

To speak to me as I pass by, 
Still worry on but still they stay 

The same as when I went away. 

The same old fountains bathe the lawn. 

The same old whistles wake at dawn. 
The same old train goes whizzing through. 

The deacon holds the same old pew. 
The same old preacher, unperplexed, 

Gives out anew the same old text; 
The same old soldiers sit astride 

The soapbox on the grocery side 
Where, 'mid the wreaths and rings of smoke, 

One hears again the same old joke. 

And thus I find the to^vn once more, 

And make my way to the same old door, 

In the same old house, on the same old spot, 
In the same old street, on the same old lot; 



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My heart leaps up with the same old boundj 
The doorbell rings with the same old sound, 

The door swings wide and a careworn face 
Appears once more in the same old place. 

An old-time smile is the smile I see 
While the same old mother kisses me. 

— Floyd D. Raze. 



ARE YOU GETTING ANYWHERE? 

You are rushing, you are straining, with a grim look on your 

face ; 
You are turning from all pleasures; in your breast peace has no 

place ; 
You have ceased to find contentment in the nooks you used to 

know ; 
You have ceased to care for others whom you clung to long ago; 
You are straining, you are striving, through the dark days and 

the fair. 
But, oh, mirthless, eager brother, are you getting anywhere? 

In your haste you have forgotten how to linger or to smile 
When a child looks up and greets you or would claim your care 

a while; 
Though the wild rose sheds its petals in the lonely pasture still 
And glad breezes sway the blossoms in the orchard on the hill 
You are too much in a hurry, and too occupied to care, 
But, with all your grim endeavors, are you getting anywhere? 

You have fled from sweet contentment; trouble haunts you in 

your dreams ; 
It is long since you have loitered on the banks of shaded streams 
That go singing to the pebbles they have made so clean and white 
And have polished at their leisure and their pleasure day and 

night ; 
You no longer know the solace that is in a sweet old air, 
But, with all your ceaseless moiling, are you getting anywhere ? 

You have given up old fancies, you have left old friends behind; 
You are getting rich in pocket, but are poor in heart and mind; 

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You have lost your sense of beauty in your haste to push ahead, 
And along the ways you travel bitterness and grief are spread; 
You have ceased to care how others bend beneath the woes they 

bear. 
But, with all your cruel striving, are you getting anywhere ? 

Out beyond you there is silence that no man may ever wake; 

In the distance there is darkness that no morning's light may 

break ; 
At the journey's end dishonor is for those who day by day 
Cheat their souls and dull their senses as they rush upon the v^ay! 
You are passing many pleasures which you have the right to 

share. 
As you rush to fill the hollow men will dig for you somewhere. 

S. E. KiSEB. 



DO IT NOW 



If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing. 

If you like him or you love him, tell him now; 
Don't withhold your approbation till the parson makes oration 

As he lies with snowy lilies o'er his brow; 
For, no matter how you shout it, he won't really care about it ; 

He v/on't know how many teardrops you have shed; 
If you think some praise is due him, now's the time to slip it to 
him. 

For he can not read his tombstone when he's dead! 

More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and 
sunny 
And the hearty, warm approval of a friend, 
For it gives to life a savor, and it makes you stronger, braver. 

And it gives you heart and spirit to the end; 
If he earns your praise — bestow it; if you like him, let him 
know it; 
Let the words of true encouragement be said; 
Do not wait till life is over and he's underneath the clover. 
For he can not read his tombstone when he's dead! 

— Philadelphia Telegraph. 

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THE LAND OF BEGINNING AGAIN 

I WISH that there were some wonderful place 

Called the Land of Beginning Again, 
WheriB all our mistakes and all our heartaches 
And all of our poor, selfish grief 
Could be dropped, like a shabby old coat, at the door, 

And never be put on again. 

I wish we could come on it all unaware. 

Like the hunter who finds a lost trail ; 
And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done 
The greatest injustice of all 
Could be at the gates, like an old friend that waits 

For the comrade he's gladdest to hail. 

We would find all the things we intended to do. 

But forgot, and remembered too late, 
Little praises unspoken, little promises broken. 
And all of the thousand and one 
Little duties neglected that might have perfected 

The day for one less fortunate. 

It wouldn't be possible not being kind 

In the Land of Beginning Again; 
And the ones we misjudged and the ones whom we grudged 
Their moments of victory here 
Would find in the grasp of our loving hand-clasp 

More than penitent lips could explain. 

So I wish that there were some wonderful place 

Called the Land of Beginning Again, 
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches 
And all of our poor, selfish grief 
Could be dropped, like a shabby old coat, at the door. 

And never be put on again. _y^^ Chariot. 



I do the very best I know how; the very best I can; and I 
mean to keep doing so until the end. If the end brings me out all 
right, what is said against me won't amount to anything. If the 
end brings me out wrong, ten angels swearing I was right would 
make no difference. -Abraham Lincoln. 

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A TOAST TO THE MAN THAT 
TAKES MY PLACE 

Here is a toast I want to drink to a fellow I'll never know — 
To the fellow who's going to take my place when it's time for 

me to go. 
I've wondered what kind of a chap he'll be and I've wished I 

could take his hand, 
Just to whisper, "I wish you well, old man," in a way that he'd 

understand. 
I'd like to give him the cheering word that I've longed at times 

to hear; 
I'd like to give him the warm hand clasp when never a friend 

seems near. 
I've learned my knowledge by sheer hard work, and I wish I could 

pass it on 
To the fellow who'll come to take my place some day when I am 

gone. 
Will he see all the sad mistakes I've made and note all the battles 

lost? 
Will he ever guess of the tears they caused or the heartaches 

which they cost? 
Will he gaze through the failures and fruitless toil of the under- 
lying plan. 
And catch a glimpse of the real intent and the heart of the 

vanquished man? 
I dare to hope he may pause some day as he toils as I have 

wrought. 
And gain some strength for his weary task from the battles 

which I have fought. 
But I've only the task itself to leave with the cares for him to 

face. 
And never a cheering word may speak to the fellow who'll take 

my place. 
Then here's to your health, old chap ; I drink as a bridegroom to 

his bride; 
I leave an unfinished task for you, but few know how I tried. 
I've dreamed my dreams, as all men do, but never a one came true, 
And my prayer today is that all the dreams may be realized by 

you. 

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And we'll meet some day in tlie great unknown — out in the realms 

of space; 
You'll know my clasp as I take your hand and gaze in your 

tired face. 
Then all your failures will be success in the light of the new found 

dawn — 
So I'm drinking your health, old chap, who'll take my place 

when I am gone. 

— Unknown. 



THE BITTER WIT 

To speak unkindly isn't wit. 

To say things that wound the heart 
Is never clever — not a bit, 

Tliough at the time you think it smart. 
Far better is it to remain 

As silent as a marble bust 
Than speak and leave a track of pain 

Behind a smiling, bitter thrust. 

The poisoned barb within a jest 

That leaves a fellow being hurt 
Is not of cleverness the test, 

Nor of a brain that is alert. 
To gibe at age or private scars. 

Or sacred griefs proclaims the cad 
And he who does it sadly mars 

The laughter that should leave us glad. 

Unkindness isn't wit at all, 

There's little humor in a sneer. 
One cannot drench his speech in gall 

And seek to laugh away the tear. 
And he who poisons thus the gay 

Is just as cowardly as he 
Who kicks a cripple's crutch away 

And laughs his helplessness to see. 

— Detroit Free Press. 

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THE COMMON LIE 

"I'll be back in ten minutes," was writ on tbe door, 
I read it again, as I'd read it before. 
And as I might read it a hundred times more, 
I'd still find that legend annexed to the door. 

"I'll be back in ten minutes." Ten minutes from when? 
Are you counting from eight, or from nine, or from ten? 
As a proof you were absent ten minutes ago, 
I've stood here and waited, and therefore I know. 

Four flights of steep stairs have I climbed till I'm sore, 
I'll climb them again, then I'll climb them no more. 
For should the same paper be pinned on the door, 
I'll tear it and scatter it over the floor; 

And should he who wrote it return any more. 
He'll find it there lying — 'twas lying before; 
For the paper's a fraud, and the writer's a bore, 
And the lie of a message will grieve me no more. 

— Fred Mitchell. 



THE BECKONING ROAD 

The high road, the low road, the road that leads away 
To blossomed fields of mem'ry where our sweetest fancies play; 
The road that leads to woodlands and beside a singing brook 
That mirrors pictures of us as we used to be and look. 

The high road, the low road, the road that twists and bends 
And leads beyond the city where all sordid striving ends — 
That takes us back to childhood by the paths we loved to roam, 
Where those who love us for us wait to bid us "welcome home." 

The high road, the low road, the road apast the mill. 
That leads to vales of mem'ry where it's all so sweet and still. 
Where every recollection is a vision wondrous fair — 
The road that's best to travel is the road that takes us there. 

— John D. Wells, in Buffalo News. 

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THE REFORM MOVEMENT IN JIMTOWN 

We'd all arrangements made to give an awful jolt to Wrong; 
The movement for reform was on, the sentiment was strong; 
Bill Bascomb was the chairman, and he drummed the thing up 

great ; 
We figured Jimtown would become the best town in the state. 

For years the grafters had been in and havin' their own way, 
Because the decent folks hung back on each election day; 
The waterworks were all run do\ATi, the streets in bad repair, 
And we were payin' more for gas than people thought was fair. 

The reputation of the place had got to be so bad 
That we'd begun, at last, to lose the commerce which we had; 
The census showed that Martinsville had passed us in the race, 
Which caused us all to realize we'd got to take a brace. 

We went to holdin' meetin's and agreed upon a plan, 
With Bascomb for our chairman — he was Jimtown's richest man; 
We built a splendid platform, mostly drawn by Ezra Shaw. 
Who'd been in the legislature, and knew all about the law. 

We had the preachers with us — they were eager from the start; 
Then the merchants and the doctors even got to takin' part; 
The movement spread like sixty, and the crooks began to quake; 
We were showin' them that Jimtown had at last got wide awake. 

Well, everything looked bright until 'twas near election time; 
It seemed as though we'd save the town and drive out rum and 

crime ; 
The women helped us heart and soul, the preachers preached and 

prayed. 
We riddled every argument and plea the gangsters made. 

Our candidate was Henry Cobb, a pillar of the church; 
His reputation didn't have a solitary smirch; 
He'd never smoked nor had a taste of liquor in his life; 
Our foremost social leaders were his daughters and his wife. 

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We'd got the town stirred up so well it seemed we couldn't lose; 
Our glorious battle-cry was, "Down with boodlers and with booze!" 
Election day was drawin' near, we'd meetin's every night; 
It looked as though the gang would all be buried out of signt. 

'Twas then the thunderbolt arrived ; Bill BascOmb's feet got cold ; 
It seems he owned a lot he'd long been anxious to have sold; 
The gangsters all at once found out that lot was just the place 
On which to build an engine-house, so Bill dropped from the race. 

The same day Dr. Stubbs withdrew; he'd got a chance to trade 
Some vacant land for buildin's where a good stiff rent was paid; 
Somehow the doctor's views were changed; he ceased right there 

to think 
That Jimtown needed cleanin' or that there was harm in drink. 

And so they kept desertin'; Banker Hinkley found reform 

To be only a delusion; his directors raised a storm 

When the gangsters talked of takin' all the plums they'd shaken 

down. 
As a nucleus for startin' a new bank right here in town. 

Ezra Shaw, it seems, was promised if he'd join the other side 
That they'd give him all their cases, when they'd any to be tried; 
So he lost enthusiasm for the cause he'd helped to start 
And agreed to help the grafters, which he did with all his heart. 

Henry Cobb, our peerless leader, was among the last to quit; 
In the church he was a pillar and his family was "It"; 
But about a dozen tenants Henry's agent rented to 
Said they'd pull up stakes and leave us if we got our programme 
through. 

So we've dropped reform in Jimtown ; we will take it up no more> 

And I've learned a little lesson that I never knew before ; 

If you offered some men money for their votes they'd strike you 

blind. 
But I guess 'most everybody has an ax he'd like to grind. 



Worry kills more people than work because more people tackle it. 

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"THE LEVEL AND THE SQUARE" 

We meet upon the level and we part upon the square; 
What words of precious meaning these words Masonic are! 
Come, let us contemplate them, they are worthy of a thought. 
With the highest, and the lowest, and the rarest they are fraught. 

We meet upon the level, though from every station come; 

The rich man from his mansion, and the poor man from his home ; 

For the one must leave his wealth and state outside the Mason's 

door. 
And the other finds his true respect upon the checkered floor. 

We part upon the square, for the world must have its due; 
We mingle with the multitude, a cold, unfriendly crew. 
But the influence of our gatherings in memory is green, 
And we meet upon the level, to renew the happy scene. 

There's a world where all are equal — we are hurrying toward it 

fast; 
We shall meet upon the level there, when the gates of death are 

past; 
We shall stand before the Orient, and our Master will be there 
To try the blocks we offer by His own unerring square. 

We shall meet upon the level there, but never thence depart; 
There's a mansion — ^'tis all ready for each trusting, faithful 

heart — 
There's a mansion and a welcome, and a multitude is there 
Who have met upon the level and been tried upon the square. 

Let us meet upon the level, then, while laboring patient here. 
Let us meet, and let us labor, though the labor be severe; 
Already in the Western sky the signs bid us prepare 
To gather up our w^orking tools and part upon the square! 

Hands round, ye brother Masons, form the bright fraternal chain ; 
We part upon the square below to meet in heaven again. 
Oh! what words of precious meaning those words Masonic are, 
We meet upon the level and we part upon the square! 

— ^RoB Morris, LL. D. 

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WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 

Out where the smile dwells a little longer, 
Where friendship's grasp is a trifle stronger. 

That's where the West begins. 

Out where the sun shines a little brighter. 
Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter, 
And the bond of home ties are a wee bit tighter, 
That's where the West begins. 

Out where the skies are a little bluer. 

Where friendship ties are a trifle truer. 

Where there's music in every streamlet flowing. 

That's where the West begins. 

Out where the world is still in the making. 
Where fewer hearts with despair are breaking. 
Where there's more of singing, less of sighing. 

That's where the West begins. 

Where there's more of giving, less of buying. 
Where a man makes friends without half trying, 

That's where the West begins. 

— Arthur Chapman. 



THE PITY OF IT 

Should gossip's tongue to you confide 

A dark tale of some other; 
O heed it not, nor turn aside 

To tell it to another; 
One meaning truth try keep in mind, 

Forever and forever. 
White can be blackened once, we find, 

But black be whitened, never! 

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AN UNMARKETABLE STOCK 

A MAN there was who shunned the strife 

Of busy toil and trade 
And sought to regulate his life 

With wisdom ready-made. 
He studied till the hour grew late 

And never seemed to be 
Impressed by an event whose date 

Was later than B. C. 

Said he: "Let others garner grain 

Or raise the buildings tall; 
I shall not live for common gain. 

The object is too small." 
Alack-a-day! When he would lunch 

He often lacked the price, 
For all he'd gathered was a bunch 

Of second-hand advice. 
' — Washington Star, 



TELL -EM YOU'RE FEELIN* FINE 

There ain't no use in kickin', friend, if things don't come your 

way, 
It does no good to holler 'round an' grumble night an' day; 
The thing to do is curb yer grief — cut out yer little whine, 
An' when they ask you how you are, jest say, "I'm feelin' fine." 

They ain't no man alive but what is booked to get his slap. 
They ain't no man that v/alks but what from trouble gets his rap ; 
Go mingle with the bunch, old boy, where all the bright lights 

shine, 
An' when they ask you how you are, jest say, "I'm feelin' fine." 

Yer heart may be jest bustin' with some real or fancied woe, 

But if you smile the other folks ain't very apt to know; 

The old world laughs at heartaches, friend, be they yer own er 

mine, 
So when they ask you how you are, jest say, "I'm feelin' fine." 

— Bide Dudley. 

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MY DOG 

No soul! And who are you, pray tell, 

To say to me my dog's "no soul" ? 
What do you know who talk so well 

And smile at yonder little knoll? 
Yes, that's my dog — he's buried there — 

A friend so loving, full of fun; 
So patient with me I'd not dare 

To say his life's forever done. 
You know when trouble's comin' fast. 

And things look dark, and you're "all in," 
And you give up, an' then at last / 

You're plumb discouraged, and you sin — 
Who wants you then? They'll all pass by, 

These human ones! Just any day 
You see 'em do it, and they try. 

So hard, to "look the other way." 
But does your dog? No, sir, not he! 

Those two dear eyes, so clear and true, 
Look up at you — what does he see? 

Tlie best and only the best in you! 

— A Dog Lover. 



DID YOU? 



Did you give him a lift? He's a brother of man, 
And bearing about all the burden he can. 
Did you give him a smile? He was downcast and blue, 
And the smile would have helped him battle it through. 

Did you give him your hand ? He was slipping down hill. 
And the world, so I fancied, was using him ill. 
Did you give him a word? Did you show him the road. 
Or did you just let him go on with his load? 

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Do you know what it means to be losing the fight, 
When a lift just in time might set everything right ? 
Do you know what it means — just the clasp of a hand, 
When a man's borne about all a man ought to stand? 

Did you ask what it was — why the quivering lip ? 
Why the half -suppressed sob, and the scalding tears drip? 
Were you brother of his when the time came of need? 
Did you offer to help him, or didn't you heed? 

—Tid Bits. 



A DYING HOBO 

Beside a western water tank, one cold November day, 
Inside an empty boxcar a dying hobo lay. 
His partner stood beside him, with low and drooping head. 
Listening to the last words this dying hobo said: 

"I am going to a better land, where everything is bright; 
Where handouts grow on bushes and you sleep out every night; 
Where you don't have to work at all, or even change your socks, 
And little streams of whisky come trinkling down the rocks. 

"Tell my sweetheart back in Denver that no more her face I'll 

view; 
That I have jumped the fast freight and I am going through. 
Tell her not to weep for me ; no tears in her eyes must lurk. 
For I am going to a land where I don't have to work! 

"Hark! I hear her whistling; I must catch her on the fly! 
Farewell, partner, I must leave you; it ain't so hard to die!" 
The hobo stopped, his head fell back — he'd sung his last refrain. 
His partner swiped his hat and shoes, and jumped the east bound 
train. 

Some poem, this. It is recommended to elocutionists who 
seek a change from the somewhat hackneyed "Bingen on the 
Rhine." 

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ONLY A HORSE 

Only a horse, an old horse, too, 

Working from day to day. 
Only a worn-out nag, 'tis true. 

Plodding his weary way. 

A horse that works and works in vain 

For his master's word of praise, 
A slave that bows to the tightened rein; 

A heast, that the master flays. 

Only a horse ; but a horse with a heart, 

A thin, worn-out old bay; 
But with spirit strong, he plods along 

With uncomplaining neigh. 

A beast of burden by man abused. 

Tortured with lash and goad; 
But a lesson in faithfulness, courage and toil — 

This worn-out nag of the road. 

Only a horse — ^not a brute — but a horse, 

A patient, tired old bay. 
The brute is the one that applies the lash. 

Not the one who receives the flay. 

He labors hard for his master's greed. 

He endures the toil and the pain; 
But his look of despair from his eyes is a prayer — 

An appeal to be humane. 

— Ray I. HoppMAisr, in Our Dumb Animals. 



A CLEAR QUESTION 

''Mandy, is you married?" 
"Well, I haint said I haint, did I?" 

"Looky heah, chile, I didn't done ax you haint you haint 
married; I axed you haint you is; is you?" 

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THE LOWER HIGHER 

When the rates for "uppers" in Pullmans 
became effective. 

The wondering conductor stood within the Pullman aisle; 

There was trouble in his visage and his face had lost its smile, 

For a passenger was asking him to fix him with a berth, 

And he pondered o'er the price list while he figured up its worth. 

"All the uppers now are lower," the conductor softly said, 
While with nervous, trembling fingers through the book of costs 

he sped. 
"Though this makes the higher lower, still the lower is no higher." 
"How is that? An upper lower?" queried the prospective buyer. 

"This is it," the wan conductor then attempted to explain, 
"We have lowered all the uppers that we have upon the train. 
Thus, we have the lower higher than we used to have the upper" — 
"Hum!" the passenger then asked him, "What did you drink 
with your supper?" 

"Can't you understand ?" then answered the conductor with a sigh. 
"Though the higher ones are lower, still the lowers are as high. 
With highers lower than they were, the lowers but seem higher." 
"You're off the water wagon," vowed the man, "or I'm a liar." 

And the passenger then left him and went to another car. 
While the poor conductor mumbled: "Don't you see, sir, where 

we are? 
With the lower higher higher than the higher lower lower" — 
Then he plunged into the diner for a glass of joy-bestower. 



JOURNEY THROUGH LIFE 

Touch us gently, Time! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently, — as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream. 

— Bryan W. Peoctor. 

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SHEARS AND SAWBUCK 

How two farmers bit at the catalogue bait. 

Shears and Sawbuck kept a store 
Such as never was before. 
City folks they wouldn't sell, 
Wouldn't let 'em have a smell. 
Fetched their money — but by jing! 
Couldn't buy a blessed thing! 
Couldn't meet 'em face to face 
An' then sell 'em with good grace. 

Country trade was what they sought — 
Folk's who'd pay for what they bought 
'Fore they saw it, hide or tail. 
They sent catalogues by mail 
Out to ev'ry blessed one 
Gittin' mail at Possum Run. 
We set up at night and read 
When we'd orter been to bed. 

Book was 'bout as big as sin — 
Had a lot of pictures in, 
And a list of merchandise, 
Ev'ry kind and ev'ry size — 
Givin' prices that they swore 
Knocked out every country store. 
Looked so straight and seemed so true 
I bit at it — Jim did, too. 

Jim's my neighbor 'cross the way — 
Best man ever worked in hay. 
Just let him top off a stack — 
Shed's rain like a turtle's back. 
Pleasure jest to see him work, 
Never knew ol' Jim to shirk; 
Swings a scythe like it was play — 
Love to watch him in the way. 

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Well, we like a pair of fools 
Sent off — got some hayin' tools. 
Jim got harness and a plow, 
I, a range — I see it now; 
Drat the thing, it was so light 
Used it for a torch at night; 
Throw'd the darn thing in the yard — ■ 
Use it now for renderin' lard. 

'Fore Jim used the plow an hour 
Found the blame thing wouldn't scour; 
Tried his harness — ^broke a tug — 
Sought for solace in his jug — 
In the cooler all that night 
Jim reflected on his plight; 
In the morning, Richard Stout, 
Hardware merchant, bailed him out, 

Jim said after that he'd stick 
Close as bark to good ol' Dick. 
Since he left the Possum jail 
Says he won't buy goods by mail. 
Says Dick's cheaper anyhow — 
Might have saved some on the plow. 
On the other goods some more. 
At his ol' friend's hardware store. 

Jim says, "We can't sell no truck 
To such folks as Shears-Sawbuck. 
They'll take all our cash away. 
But won't buy our corn or hay." 
That seemed purty strange to me, 
So I told ol' Jim I'd see — 
So I wrote to them that night 
Jist to see if Jim was right. 

Ast 'em what they'd pay for oats ? 
Could they use some likely shoats ? 
How about four tons of ' hay? 
I could ship 'em right away. 
Could I furnish Mr. Shears 
With his family roastin' ears? 
Also would my friend Sawbuck 
Buy some of my garden truck? 

26 



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Answer came one summer day. 
Said they "Couldn't use our hay. 
Couldn't use our oats or shoats. 
Didn't like our billy goats. 
When they needed truck to eat 
Bought it down on Water street — 
Sorry, but they must refuse 
Anything but cash to use." 

I sat down an' wrote 'em then: 

"Hate to trouble you again. 

But I want to thank you, sirs. 

For your bunch of cockle burrs. 

If you love your feller man, 

Do him, good, sirs, when you can — 

While our merchants sweetly sleep — 

Shears and Sawbuck shear your sheep." 

— Beocall Drug Company Magazine. 



THE FARMHOUSE PIANO 

The old piano is a pet; 

The farmer thinks it fine. 
It was the best that he could get 

In 1869. 

He tells the boarders with much pride 

Of how he blew his dough 
To buy it for his bonny bride 
So many years ago. 

The wires are getting rather loose 

And yellow are its keys. 
Sometimes it gurgles like a goose. 
Sometimes emits a wheeze. 

But still it seems a goodly thing 

When girls from rustic dells 
Sit down and make the welkin ring 

With "Monastery Bells." 

— Louisville Courier- Journal. 

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HOW THE SUCKER FELT 

In the "Swimmin* Hole" 

It was in the little "swimmin' hole," 

In the "cow lot" years ago, 
When my face was full of freckles 

And a stone bruise swelled my toe. 
That I landed my first fish, 

With a pin hook and a worm; 
And how I did enjoy 

Seeing the little sucker squirm. 

Just how that sucker felt that day 

At being fooled and caught. 
Never entered in my boyish head 

For I had no time for thought; 
Another section of red worm went — 

Went quickly on the pin. 
And in the "swimmin' hole" it dropped 

To lure his next of kin. 

Lines of care now mark the place 
Where the freckles used to grow, 

And the heart now gets the bruises 
That used to swell the toe; 

And I know now how the "sucker" felt 
When he found himself ashore, 

For more than once I've played his part 
And swallowed "baits" galore. 



CONSCIENCE 



"For parties and for creeds," he said, 

"I do not care at all ; 
When I am right I go ahead 

And do not fear to fall; 
My conscience is the law by which 

I shape my daily course; 
I follow neither poor nor rich 

Nor weakly bow to force. 

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"It matter not at all to me 

Which way the crowd may go; 
From fear and superstition free, 

I stand for what I know; 
Though all the world should think me wrong 

My conscience I should serve, 
Serene and confident and strong. 

Nor hesitate nor swerve. 

"I cast traditions all aside. 

From prejudice I turn; 
With reason as my constant guide, 

I claim but what I earn; 
All unaccompanied I fare 

Upon a lonely way; 
I scorn such ills as threaten there 

And fools who bid me stay." 

He saw a chance to profit through 

A party that was base; 
His conscience quickly shaped his view 

To make it fit the case; 
A creed that he had thought outworn. 

For babes and weaklings fit. 
No longer seemed a thing to scorn 

When gains arrived through it. 

— Washington Post. 



A SENSELESS AFFAIR 

He was a wireless politician — 

She was a thoughtless maid — 
Out on the grassless lawn together. 

Under the treeless shade. 
Playing a game of netless tennis. 

This, with a bounceless ball — 
When, from the glassless hotel window 

Echoed a soundless call. 

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DIPPED FROM THE STREAM 



Then through the pathless walk they ambled, 

Each with a stepless gait, 
Into the flyless room for dining; 

Each to a foodless plate; 
Each with a smileless face then settled 

Down in a seatless seat. 
"Ah, what a tasteless taste!" he muttered; 

"Oh, for a biteless eat!" 

First 'twas a meatless steak they ordered; 

Then tried a crustless pie; 
Next o'er an iceless ice they dallied, 

E^ch with a blinkless eye. 
Ah, what an endless end we're reaching — 

End of this wordless wreck — 
He, with a centless dollar, settled 

All of the pay less check! 



HOME 

I TURNED an ancient poet's book. 

And found upon the page, 
"Stone walls do not a prison make 

Nor iron bars a cage." 

Yes, that is true 

And something more : 
You'll find where'er you roam 

That gilded walls 

And marbled halls 
Will never make a home. 

But every house where Love abides 
And Friendship is a guest 
Is truly Home, 
And Home, Sweet Home, 
For there the Heart can rest. 

— Author Unknown. 

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THE THINGS THAT COUNT 

Not what we have, but what we use; 
Not what we see, but what we choose — 
These are things that mar or bless 
The sum of human happiness. 

The things near by, not things afar; 
Not what we seem, but what we are — 
These are the things that make or break. 
That give the heart its joy or ache. 

Not what seems fair, but what is true; 
Not what we dream, but what we do — 
These are the things that shine like gems, 
Like stars in Fortune's diadems. 

Not as we take, but as we give; 

Not as we pray, but as we live — 

These are the things that make for peace, 

Both now and after Time shall cease. 

— Claeence Urmy. 



"DONT TALK BLUE" STORY 

JIM sez thet when he wuz workin' the inshurance bizness he 
wuz in a feller's implement stoar 1 day waitin' to get to talk 
to the feller thet owned it. He hed gone out to see the 
doctor 'bout his wife thet wuz sick — thet is the stoarkeeper hed. 
Jim sed while he wuz waitin' fur the feller to cum back a farmer 
cum in an' Jim seed he wanted to buy sumthin' so he thot he 
M^ood try an' keep him till the stoarkeeper got back. So he got to 
talkin' to him an' the farmer sed things wuz lookin' purty good 
out his way. He sed he wuz thinkin' sum uv buyin' a buggy fur 
his dotter an' thot he wood look at 'em thet day. 

Jim ast him ef he had ever bot enny life inshurance an' he sed 
he hadn't, an' he went to talkin' to him about it an' the farmer 
sed he thot he wood take sum 'fore he went home. About thet 
time the stoarkeeper cum back an' the farmer shuk hands with 
him an' ast him how things wuz cummin', an' the stoarkeeper sed 

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they wuz cummin' mitey bad, sed his wife hed bin sick fur 2 
months an' thet he had the rumatiz hisself sittin' up with her, an' 
he sed bizness wuz awful dull an' thet if it didn't rane purty dum 
quick they wooldn't be enuf corn in the county to fatten a turkey, 
an' he didn't bleeve it cood do much good no how then, even ef it 
did rane. 

Jim sez the feller kep on talkin' thet way an' never ast the 
farmer ef he wanted to buy annything an' after while the farmer 
looked sorter blew hisself an' when he went outside Jim follered 
him an' tride to get his order fer inshurance an' he sed no he 
coodn't aford it thet year, he'd wate till sum uther time, ez he 
wuz afeerd it wuz goin' to be hard times. 

Jim sez thet wuz a sure nuf fac, cos he seed an' heerd the hole 
bizness. He sed he had never seed before how ezy it wuz fur 1 
feller's feelins to effect anuther an' he knowd thet dealer jest 
nocked hisself out uv a order fer a buggy. 

■ — "Job Rickets" (J as. E. Baird). 



THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELER 

First in the crowded car is he to offer — 

This traveling man, unhonored and unsung — 

The seat he paid for, to some woman, young 
Or old and wrinkled. He is first to proffer 
Something — a trifle from his samples, may be — 
To please the fancy of a crying baby. 
He lifts the window and he drops the curtain 

'EoY unaccustomed hands. He lends his "case" 
To make a bolster for a child, not certain 

But its mamma will frown him in the face; 
So anxiously some women seek for danger 
In every courteous act of any stranger. 
Well versed is he in all the ways conducive 

To comfort where least comfort can be found. 

His little deeds of thoughtfulness abound. 
He turns the seat unasked, yet unobtrusive. 
Is glad to please you, or to have you please him. 
Yet takes it very calmly lif you freeze him. 
He smooths the Jove-like frown of the official 

By paying the fare of one who cannot pay. 
True modesty he knows from artificial; 

Will flirt, of course, if you're inclined that way, 

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And if you are, be sure tliat lie detests you; 
And if you're not, be sure that he respects you. 
The sorrows of the traveling world distress him; 

He never fails to lend what aid he can. 
A thousand hearts today have cause to bless him, 

This much-abused, misused "commercial man." 
I do not seek to cast a halo 'round him. 
But speak of him precisely as I've found him. 

— Unknown. 



PARTED 

She was beautiful beyond compare. 
Queenly walk and regal air. 
I can't do her justice with my pen, 
Admired was she by all the men. 

I thought her best of all her kind. 

But must admit, I've changed my mind. 

She was mine and mine alone. 

And I was proud to call her my own. 

We parted just six months ago. 
No grief or sorrow did she show. 
Not e'en a teardrop dimmed her eye, 
Nor dad she deign to say "Good-bye." 

I do not care, I must admit. 

If we are forever quit. 

She does not care, then why should I 

Waste one single, mournful sigh? 

Our parting I will never rue. 

The skies above are just as blue. 

What if never again we meet. 

The flowers are blooming just as sweet. 

The sun and moon the same will shine. 
If ne'er more I may call her mine. 
The birds will trill their happy song. 
The same for me the whole day long. 

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You may opine, I should be sad, 
But I must confess that I am glad. 
Why should I grieve? Why should I care? 
I got THREE HUNDRED for that mare! 

— M. J. Miller. 



THE GROVE OF 

Down in the groves where the memories meet 

To talk of the days agone, 
The place where the feelings, divinely sweet 

With the hush of the past, come on; 
I love to rove in a pensive mood. 

'Mid the shades of death awhile. 
And look in the face of my coming fate 

With an almost yearning smile. 

To feel that the calm of the place is mine 

The stillness, the shade, the peace, 
The surcease of sorrow and pain and care 

That brings such a sweet release; 
To know that the days of the past are safe. 

With never a chance of change. 
And feel that the friends who shall meet me there 

Will never seem cold nor strange. 

The grove where the memories meet is bright 

With the light of deeds well done. 
Is warm with the warmth of the kindness shown, 

And garnished with trophies won 
In the fight for right, in the war with wrong. 

If the fight were fought aright; 
But the grove is dark, if the fight was wrong. 

With the gloom of a starless night. 

There are lights and shades in the grove of all, - 

As the deeds were bad or good. 
Like the shafts of light and the spot of gloom 

In a deeply shaded wood; 
And the light is peace, and the gloom is pain, 

And the eyes with tears are wet, 
As we wander through with a sense of peace 

Or the tortures of regret! 

— Jane H. Haerison. 
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PRETTY GOOD WORLD 

This world's a pretty good sort of world, 

Taking it altogether. 
In spite of the grief and sorrow we meet. 

In spite of the gloomy weather. 
There are friends to love and hopes to cheer, 

And plenty of compensation 
T'or every ache for those who make 

The best of the situation. 

There are quiet nooks for lovers of books. 

With nature in happy union; 
There are cool retreats from the noontide heat. 

Where souls may have sweet communion; 
And if there's a spot where the sun shines not, 

Tliere's always a lamp to light it, 
And if there's a wrong, we know ere long 

That heaven above will right it. 

So it's not for us to make a fuss 

Because of life's sad mischances. 
Nor to wear ourselves out to bring about 

A change in our circumstances. 
For this world's a pretty good sort of world, 

And he to whom we are debtor 
Appoints our place, and supplies the grace 

To help us make it better. 

— London Tit-Bits. 



Senator Bob Taylor said: "Beyond the pathless mountains 
that lift their blue peaks into the fading distance there lies a 
charming valley, dotted all over with wild flowers of every hue 
and shade, and from which the mellow sunshine of spring never 
departs." 

Death, he made, "a bright fresh picture of morning with its 
everlasting peace, and there the people never heard of war nor 
pestilence." 

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CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star. 

And one clear call for me! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar. 

When I put out to sea. 
But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When I embark; 
For tho' from out the bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 

— ^Alfred Tennyson. 



IN THE LAND OF NEVER HURRY 

There's a land called Never Hurry, 

Where the skies are always fair; 
O'er, it reigns the King Don't Worry 

And his lovely Queen Don't Care. 
There the lazy Summer lingers, 

Wdth its perfume and its flowers. 
And the Autumn's crimson fingers 

Never nip the dreaming hours. 

In this Never Hurry region 

There are girls with golden hair — 
La2y, laughing, languid legion 

Round the throne of Queen Don't Care, 
And there's one named Lips o' Poppy 

Waits for me alone, apart; 
Brush nor pencil ne'er could copy 

All the charms of my sweetheart! 

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Lips o' Poppy — eyes o' slumber — 

All your dreaming I would share! 
We'll forget the years to number 

In the shadow of your hair! 
On the bank of Slumber River, 

Take me, lead me by the hand 
Where the lotus blossoms quiver. 

In the Never Hurry Land! 



PASSERS 

Out of the big wide world they come and pause for a word, and go 
Out into the world again and gone ; gone as the leaves that blow 
Down airy lanes, and their names fade out, but if they have 

brought a smile. 
Then a memory of them outlasts their name and stays for the 

longest while; 
And you are glad that they climbed the stairs to get to your little 

den. 
And there's a sweetness you know not of when they have gone on 

again ; 
They bring you stories of distant lands, and stories of foreign 

ways. 
And some are old and they tell you tales of love of their far gone 

days. 

And one comes to you to tell you things of a boy that he had — 

who died. 
And another comes with a failure tale — he failed though he tried 

and tried. 
But he believes he will win out yet, and smiles as he leaves your 

den. 
With a courage finer than tempered steel, a courage to try again! 
And so they come, and pause for a word, and turn to the door 

and go ; 
And some of them bring you tales of joy, but most of them tales 

of woe; 
For when we're winning and life is glad, what need for a word or 

two? 
But how men grope for a kindly hand when all of the world looks 

blue! 

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And that's what makes it a good old world, the fellows who come 

and pass; 
Some look on life as a drunkard looks deep into his empty glass; 
And some are glad, and it takes all kinds to make up the world 

of men. 
And it is good that they turn aside to speak as they pass your den ; 
And maybe you help them a little bit with your grip and your 

howdydo, 
And maybe, though you don't know quite how, they've been of 

some help to you. 
But, anyhow, here's luck to them who come as the wild leaves blow 
Out of the big wide world, and pause for a "Howdy!" and turn 

and go. 

— JuDD Mortimer Lewis. 



DON'T BE A QUITTER 

We can not always find the ways 

That lead to waiting treasures; 
There must sometimes be dismal days 

That are devoid of pleasures; 
The winds that blow so swiftly now 

Tomorrow may be bitter; 
The storms will come, but, anyhow 

Don't be a quitter. 

We can not always do the things 

We wish we might be doing; 
We may not be all dukes or kings. 

Some men must do the hewing; 
Some men must plow and some must sow, 

While some in jewels glitter, 
But, if your place is high or low, 

Don't be a quitter. 

Some men may live in idleness 

On fortunes they inherit. 
And some men never may possess 

The sweet rewards of merit; 
Some men may rido in lordly state, 

While others bear the litter; 
But, rich or poor, or small or great. 

Don't be a quitter. 

38 



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You can not win by sitting in 

Your corner, sighing gravely; 
Inflate your chest, thrust out your chin. 

And do your duty bravely; 
You may have cause to be in doubt. 

Your hardships may be bitter, 
But never let the world find out — 

Don't be a quitter! 

— S. E. KiSER. 



WHEN SOMEONE CARES 

When you meet some disappointment, an' yer feelin' kind-o-blue; 
When yer plans have all got sidetracked, or some friend has 

proved untrue; 
When yer toiling, praying, struggling, at the bottom, up the 

stairs — 
It's like a panacea — just to know that someone cares. 

Someone who can appreciate one's efforts when he tries; 
Someone who seems to understand — an' so can sympathize ; 
Someone who, when he's far away, still wonders how he fares — 
Someone who never can forget — someone who really cares. 

It will send a thrill of rapture through the framework uv the 

heart ; 
It will stir the inner bein' till the tear-drops want to start; 
For this life is worth the livin', when someone yer sorrows 

shares — 
Life is truly worth the livin,' wdien you know that someone cares. 

Oh, this world is not all sunshine — many days dark clouds 

disclose ; 
There's a cross for every joy-bell an' a thorn for ev'ry rose; 
But the cross is not so grievous, near the thorn the rosebud 

wears — 
An' the clouds have silver linin's — when someone really cares. 

— James E. Hilkey. 

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JOYS 

You needn't be rich to be happy, 

You needn't be famous to smile, 
There are joys for the poorest of toilers 

If only he'll think them worth while. 
There are blue skies and sunshine a-plenty, 

And blossoms for all to behold; 
And always the bright days outnumber 

The dark and the cheerless and cold. 

Sweet sleep's not a gift of the wealthy. 

And love's not alone for the great; 
For men to grow old and successful 

It isn't joy's custom to wait. 
The poorest of toilers has blessings 

His richer companions may crave; 
And many a man who has riches 

Goes sorrowing on to the grave. 

You'll never be happy tomorrow 

If you are not happy today, 
If you're missing the joys that are present 

And sighing for joys far away, 
The rose will not bloom any fairer, 

In the glorious years that may be. 
Great riches won't sweeten its fragrance 

Nor help you its beauties to see. 

Today is the time to make merry, 

'Tis folly for fortune to wait; 
You'll not find the skies any bluer 

If ever you come to be great. 
You'll not find your joys any brighter. 

No matter what fortune you win; 
Make the most of life's sunshine this minute. 

Tomorrow's too late to begin. 

— Edgar A. Guest. 



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A BACHELOR'S CHRISTMAS GIFTS 

Ash-trays of metal and lacquer and paste. 
Belts that would circle an elephant's waist. 
Collar box, lilac silk, hand painted one. 
Desk clock, that's warranted never to run. 
Eyeglass case, heavy and over ornate. 
Fountain pen, one of the earliest date. 
Gloves, of unwearable sizes and shades. 
Handkerchiefs, dubious patterns and grades. 
Inkstand, of hideous, freakish design. 
Jack-knife, not meant to be used, I opine. 
Knitted ties, setting on edge all your teeth. 
Library shears, in a clumsy brass sheath. 
Match safe, for pocket use, made of bright zinc. 
Nail file, with celluloid handle, pale pink. 
Opera glasses of mother-of-pearl. 
Paper weight, glass covered picture of girl. 
Quilted house jacket of flamboyant hues. 
Razor, the sort that nobody could use. 
Sm^oking set, by a crafts maniac built. 
Tobacco bag, made of burnt leather and gilt. 
Umbrella, nigh silk, with handle bedecked. 
Vest buttons, art nouveau, flashy effect. 
Watch fob, an antique, as ugly as sin. 
Xpensive boxes to keep rubbish in. 
Year book, and diary and calendar pad. 
Zephyr knit muffler, or something as bad! 

— Caeolyn Wells, in Life. 



THE REAL TRUTH 

I OFTEN hear men talking 

About the things they'd do, 
If they possessed a million, 

In solid cash, or two. 
I know not what tune others 

In such a case would sing; 
But as for me, why really, 

I wouldn't do a thing! 

— By the Compiler. 

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THINGS YOU LEAVE UNDONE 

It isn't the thing you do, dear; 

It's the thing you leave undone 
Which gives you a bit of heartache 

At the setting of the sun. 
The tender word forgotten, 

The letter you did not write, 
The flower you might have sent, dear, 

Are your haunting ghosts tonight. 

The stone you might have lifted 

Out of a brother's way, 
The bit of heartsome counsel 

You were hurried too much to say, 
The loving touch of the hand, dear. 

The gentle and winsome tone. 
That you had no time nor thought for, 

With troubles enough of your own. 

The little acts of kindness. 

So easily out of mind; 
Those chances one may find — 

Which every one may find — 
They come in night and silence — 

Each chill, reproachful wraith — 
When hope is faint and flagging 

And a blight has dropped on faith. 

For life is all too short, dear. 

And sorrow is all too great; 
So suff"er our great compassion 

That tarries until too late; 
And it's not the thing you do, dear, 

It's the thing you leave undone, 
Which gives you the bit of heartache 

At the setting of the sun. 

— Margaeet Sangster. 
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THE RIVER OF LIFE 

The more we live, more brief appear 

Our life's succeeding stages; 
A day to childhood seems a year. 

And years like passing ages. 

The gladsome current of our youth, 

Ere passion yet disorders, 
Steals lingering, like a river smooth. 

Along its grassy borders. 

But as the careworn cheek grows wan. 

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker. 
Ye stars, that measure life to man. 

Why seem your courses quicker? 

When joys have lost their bloom and breath, 

And life itself is vapid, 
Why, as we near the Falls of Death, 

Feel we its tide more rapid? 

It may be strange — ^yet who would change 

Time's course to slower speeding, 
When one by one our friends have gone. 

And left our bosoms bleeding? 

Heaven gives our years of failing strength 

Indemnifying fleetness. 
And those of youth, a seeming length. 

Proportioned to their sweetness. 

— Thomas Campbell. 



THE END OF THE ROMANCE 

"The days will dreary seem," said he, 

"When you are far away. 
Though blue above the skies may be, 

To me they will be gray. 

"My every thought will be of you 

Until again we meet, 
It is so hard to say 'adieu,' 

Though parting is so sweet." 

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"I'll think of you each day," said she, 

"And dream of you each night. 
And every thought that comes to me 

To you I'll gladly write. 

"You've promised that each day you'll pen 

A word of love to me, 
And that will help to cheer me, when 

The hours drag drearily." 

But day by day no letters came. 

Since fiction here is barred. 
For he forgot the maiden's name. 

And she mislaid his card. 

—Detroit Free Press. 



WHERE DO YOU GO FROM HERE? 

"Where do you go from here?" says the host of my hotel. 
And "Where do you go from here ?" says the boy who answers 

the bell. 
I have ordered ice-water, and towels and soap, and a call at six 

or near, 
And my trunks brought up, that the porter may ask, "Where do 

you go from here?" 
The fireman says, as he builds the fire, "Where do you go from 

here ?" 
And my old friends too, ere their calls expire, say, "Where do 

you go from here?" 
The barber who shaves me and grasps his tip as I hurriedly dis- 
appear, 
With "call again," on his trembling lips, says, "Where do you go 

from here?" 
Where do I go from here? Oh, heaven, where do I go from here? 
Till in fancy I stand at the last command, facing my doom with 

fear — 
Fancy the keeper of heaven's gate, as he peers outside with a leer, 
And says, "Oh, yes, you are one of those traveling chaps, where 

do you go from here?" 

— By One of Them. 

44 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 





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